Collection
by usedusernames
Summary: GEN fic. Warning for attempted suicide. Fics under 2,000 words long. Story 4 summary: "What do you think happens when you die?"
1. Limbo

**Notes: **I don't know about this. I kind of like it, I kind of don't. Maybe I'll expand on it sometime in the future.

**Warnings: **I really _should _have a warning for this, but it'd spoil the story. Make of this what you will.

* * *

**Limbo**

"The president is reported to be in good spirits," was what was said on the news. He was also attributed with a quote, which rolled across the screen, black text stuck in a grey-blue box, as it was read aloud by some news reporter with a British accent: 'I came to assuage some unfortunately prevalent fears among people with whom I've never been very popular. (…) Frankly my reception went about as well as I'd expected.'

Dewey laughed in gleeful surprise at that. "It's like he's blaming the whole state for trying to take him out," he announced to his family, who didn't acknowledge him. "He's fine."

With that, Dewey started going through the channels, chasing down the words. The rapid-fire changes of his face would have been funny to watch were the situation at all humorous. He smiled again and again whenever he saw his brother's quote, frowned quietly every time they showed Malcolm pitch forward-- grabbing the edges of the podium to steady himself instead of clasping a hand to his chest like they always did in the movies, face donning an expression more surprised than hurt-- then get yanked back, pulled down and covered by someone who moved so quickly he couldn't be recognized.

"Turn that off," Reese commanded when he'd had enough of it. He turned it off himself before Dewey got a chance to respond. Dewey, holding the remote two-handed like he was a kid again, turned it back on.

Reese's jaw tightened, and even though he looked _old_, he seemed young, too, about to clobber Dewey for not listening to him.

"Leave it," said Francis.

Reese left it. Of course he did. They'd always listened to Francis.

Dewey kept watching.

It was the same story, over and over again, with only one alteration added early on: President undergoing emergency surgery. Other than that it remained static. There was the exact same script read by the exact same people (growing haggard but unwilling to let any possible updates go to another newscaster), the exact same news clip (with the exact same sharp gunshot-cracks and same oddly belated, unified gasp of the crowd, with a rustle-rustle as microphones dropped and cameras slid), the exact same quote (read by the exact same not-Malcolm voice that made it a little harder to imagine Malcolm had been the one to say it first), the exact same sound bite from the vice president saying that President Wilkerson was doing as well as could-- (instead of waiting around for the 'be expected', they cut him off here, but they kept playing that part anyway ,'as well as can…').

Seeing his brother get shot and the people react to it in the same way over and over wasn't desensitizing, exactly. It couldn't have been, because he still jerked a little every time the gun went off. He still half-expected Malcolm to move out of the way before he got hit the first time. Then, again, half-expected him to move before he got hit the second time. Then, somehow, strangely, half-expected him to be hit a third time instead of being yanked down out of sight. So it wasn't desensitizing. But in a sick sort of way it was soothing, watching everything continuously unfold as it had half-an-hour before; an hour before; two, three, four hours before. It made it feel like they were stuck in limbo. Maybe nothing could get better, but that just meant nothing could get worse.

:--:--:--:

None of them had to take the next day off of work.

They were all lucky, if it could be considered luck; the following day was a Saturday.

They'd all stayed even though they didn't really speak to each other. Piama was rubbing Francis' shoulders, Jamie was moving around restlessly, Reese was hitting his palm with his fist absentmindedly, and Dewey was watching the television. It could have been done anywhere. The only ones who had a designated place were their parents, who were sitting together silently in Malcolm's room--and it was Malcolm's, now, even though they had all lived there; anything they had left behind of themselves was moving unobtrusively aside for everything Malcolm had left behind of himself.

Then the words scrolled across the bottom of the television screen: PRESIDENT TO UNDERGO SECOND EMERGENCY SURGERY. Dewey's ears started ringing so loudly that he could only hear a few phrases cut through the din, "Breaking news!" "…after complications arose…" "…into cardiac arrest at 7:15 A.M…" "…downgraded from serious to critical condition…"

Reese must have been listening even though he'd said he wouldn't, because that was when he started calling Malcolm's cell phone. He hadn't expected an answer, so the disappointment he felt when it went through to voicemail was unwarranted.

The first thing he did was fill a message with saying Malcolm was an idiot and an asshole; look where his genius brain had gotten him, huh?

Dewey said that maybe calling to insult the president right after he'd been shot wasn't such a great idea; their house was probably being scoped out this very second. He wasn't willing to say aloud that he didn't want this to be the last thing Reese told Malcolm, whether Malcolm ever heard it or not.

Reese didn't bother to answer him.

Instead he kept calling and kept calling, only actually leaving three messages: the first was volatile, the second distressed, and the third loving. After that he only called to hear Malcolm's voice. Reese remembered what Malcolm had set his voicemail message as right after he'd won the election-- _This is Malcolm. If you're calling to object to how I'm running the country, please hang up, step outside, and redirect all complaints to the first hapless individual you see, as this is the customary way to bitch about political figures. _

But Malcolm had changed it to something with a bit more dignified benignity immediately after the excitement of his victory had subsided. And that was what Reese heard then-- _This is Malcolm Wilkerson. I'm unable to come to the phone right now, but leave a message after the beep and I'll try to get back to you as soon as possible. --_something lacking personality. Something everyone said on their voicemail. Reese liked it better before.

:--:--:--:

Sunday morning Francis said he had to go so he could have a shower and get back to work by Monday; he could take Jamie up to college if he wanted.

Jamie opened his mouth to reply, but that was when their mother stormed out of Malcolm's room. She was wild-haired, bare-footed, and bleary-eyed, with a crumpled Kleenex clutched in one hand.

"We're _going _to see him," she told their father, who was rushing behind her, without turning around.

"Honey, I just don't think we're allowed--at least put on some shoes," their father pleaded.

But she didn't, and their father managed to get on only one loafer. The door swung open with a bang, their mother was out and their father was hopping after her, trying to get on his second shoe.

All four brothers looked at each other, and it was like a light had been turned on. Of course. Of course. There had never been a single thing that was stronger than their family was when it banded together. They all ran outside. Francis was fortunately in the habit of grabbing Piama's hand, for otherwise she would have surely been left behind. They piled into the car and their mother's bare foot was pressed down on the gas before they'd gotten the door shut behind them.

They only stopped at a gas station, where Hal also bought junk food and soda. They only even idled the car when they changed drivers at the persistence of Piama; many years ago Reese had become skilled in swapping out seats while the car was still rolling, but it was admittedly safer her way.

:--:--:--:

It was Monday and their mother was in the driver's seat again. It wasn't because they'd gone through all of the passengers, so it must have been because she wouldn't have it any other way. There was something playing on the radio, maybe it was music or maybe it was news, but they weren't listening to it so it hardly mattered. There was beautiful scenery but they weren't looking out of the windows. The family was all staring ahead, too long without sleep and too anticipatory of the mission that they couldn't really put into words to be tired. Piama _was_ tired but she stayed awake, guilted for her drowsiness by the set, determined faces around her.

It must have been a song they were not listening to, because when there was a sudden, awkward break that signified it ending where it shouldn't have, they all noticed.

There was a deep, unsure breath that didn't belong to any of them. That was when some man on the radio told them, "I've just received news that President Wilkerson has died."

They all responded instantaneously. Jamie was acutely aware of each and every one of their reactions:

Dewey's eyes went far-off and expressionless.

Francis put his elbows on his knees and buried his head into his upturned palms. He let out a long, stuttering breath.

Piama whispered exclusively to her husband, "I'm so sorry." She seemed to remember the rest of them and glanced around, including them in her regret.

Reese lurched forward just like Malcolm had, like he'd taken a blow to the chest, but he had nothing to hold onto, just the seatbelt to hold him back. "What?" he asked with disinterest, like he'd misheard.

His father's shoulders drooped slowly. He sank back into his seat and stared out of the window.

His mother reached over and clicked the radio off. "They're wrong," she said plainly.

"Lois," said his father, turning back to look at her. Putting his hand over hers.

"They're _wrong." _

She had never sounded surer of anything.

They had never been less sure of anything.

And so they kept driving.


	2. Truth

**Truth**

It's Dewey who proposes Truth or Dare.

Both Malcolm and Reese say it's babyish, God, Dewey, you're almost twelve years old. But they go along with it so they can make each other do things that usually their few collective ounces of common sense dissuades them from doing. They intersperse 'Truths' for good measure; between Malcolm and Reese the questions are mostly about drinking and sex (they have a surprising amount of questions considering they're experienced in neither), for Dewey their questions are slightly more benign. It's kind of fun, even though neither Malcolm nor Reese will actually admit it, until Dewey gets his fist 'Truth' out of Malcolm.

__

What is your biggest secret?

"You can't tell Mom or Dad."

Dewey and Reese promise thoughtlessly.

"You know where I went when I cut class a couple weeks ago?"

"Arcade," Reese answers.

"No, I--well, yeah, for a little while, while I thought about it. Then I came home."

Reese gives him a half-smile. "Your big secret is Krelboynes don't know how to play hooky?"

"Yeah, Jackass, that's _exactly _it."

Then Malcolm starts chewing on his nails and they know it's a good one.

Then, now that they're paying attention to it, they see Malcolm's really mostly just chewing on the edge of his thumb, having already chewed his nails down as far as they can go. And they know it's a bad one.

He voice is stilted. He's choosing his words carefully, trying surprisingly hard to sound nonchalant. "So, I was thinking about it-- Kind of. Not really. I don't know. A lot of people think about it-- then I came home. And since no one else was going to be home for a while, I figured I might as well…"

"So you watched gay porn," Reese guesses. "Figured as much."

"I'm not gay," Malcolm answers automatically. He has to shove his hands in his pockets to keep from chewing on his nails, but they're back out again almost immediately. "Well, there's the knife Dewey cut his hand with, not the butcher knife, the other one, the one that's not totally dull--" Malcolm pauses. "You won't tell. No. I mean, there's no reason to, anyway. It's not like it's unusual; it's not like it's something you'd have to tell Mom and Dad about. " He suddenly speaks very quickly, "Suicidal inclinations, particularly in our age bracket, really aren't uncommon. And I mean I only tried once, technically; I only cut three, four times tops and it didn't even go in very deep and then I said 'Screw it', anyway, so it's not even like I really _meant _it. Okay. My turn. Reese, truth or dare?"

"I cut my _sandwich _with that knife!" Dewey screeches. It's kind of funny that that's the first thing he thinks of. He even thinks specifically that it was a bologna on rye. Then everything falls into place behind his eyes and he repeats "Suicidal." in this high-pitched voice that makes Malcolm a little sick.

Malcolm says, "Oh, _come on_, Dewey." in an exasperated way, like Dewey's overreacting.

Both his brothers are inclined to believe this is the case just so they wouldn't have to face the alternative. Dewey and Reese sit back down uncomfortably on Reese's bed. They share hesitant glances and watch as Malcolm moves onto his index finger, chewing on the slight, torn, almost-filmy edges of his nail. They both know they'd be willing to delude themselves if Malcolm would only give them a reason to.

"You write a note?" Reese asks, almost hopefully, as though it's the only way it could be serious.

Malcolm counters, strangely defensive, "That's cliché."

Reese freezes from the inside out; he can't _breathe_, much less move.

Malcolm keeps sighing over and over in an exaggerated way; he would be the epitome of annoyance if only he sounded annoyed. Instead he sounds like he's _trying_ to be annoyed, an actor not quite nailing the part. He paces in an awkward way; he keeps trying to stop himself from doing so after taking only a step or two in either direction, resulting in him being caught in a cycle of jerking, abrupt turns.

"Let me see," Reese decides finally. He lunges forward, grabbing Malcolm by the hands and turning Malcolm's wrists skyward. "There's nothing," Reese says with relief.

"Let go of me, Buttwad. I didn't slit my wrists, that's stupid! It's not e-" Malcolm yanks his arms back. "Look, it's not like you guys have to look after me, 'Oh, gee, _whoops_, we left Malcolm his shoelaces, now he's hanging from the ceiling'. It was, it was--" his eyes sort of go blank for a second, looking through Reese as he sits back down beside Dewey. Dewey and Reese know he's thinking of how to outsmart them, and they both involuntarily resent him for it. "An idle thought that manifested itself as equally idle action. Clearly I didn't go through with it. More importantly, clearly I could have if I was inclined to. It was a curiosity--an abject curiosity, but a curiosity nonetheless-- that I was compelled to explore and…"

He falters, just a little and just long enough for Dewey to cut in with, "You meant it."

It's funny how much impact the words have--Malcolm collapses into himself like a demolished building. He gives Dewey a long look that's not so much depressed as it is absolutely nothing. It scares Dewey enough to make him grip at Reese's hand.

Malcolm reforms himself brick by brick. He starts again, and this time it sounds perfectly sincere and un-manufactured. "Okay, it was stupid. It was really, totally stupid and if either of you ever did anything even _remotely _similar, I'd beat the crap out of you." He's usually a pretty adept liar, but this time he seems desperate; where honesty ends and dishonesty begins is clear: "But that doesn't mean I meant it_._"

He looks at them pleadingly. The tables have turned somewhere along the line. Suddenly Reese and Dewey are the ones who seem convinced of what his motive was and he's the one who needs reassurance.

They have nothing.

"Dewey," Reese says. He's looking at Malcolm. "Truth or dare?"

"_What?_" Dewey asks, horrified. "_What_ is _wrong _with you?"

Reese pulls down hard on Dewey's hand, yanking Dewey's arm just enough for it to be uncomfortable. "Truth. Or. Dare."

"Dare," Dewey answers miserably.

Reese relaxes visibly. "Good, me too. I dare us to tell Mom and Dad what Malcolm just told us."

It's probably stupid that this makes it easier. It makes it something to be caught up in; a goal to meet. Most importantly, in spite of Reese being the darer it makes it seem like an outside force is making them do it; they have to betray their brother's trust (and they know it still is a betrayal; maybe it's stupid to feel that way, too); they were dared to. Instead of the usual adrenaline rush that dares inspire, this draws away the fear.

Malcolm looks quickly back and forth between them. "You can't. You promised."

They shrug helplessly.

They have to.

They were dared to.

Reese and Dewey both stand fantastically in sync.

Malcolm's fingers lace behind his head. He sways a little like he's inclined to block the door, but he doesn't actually move. He breathes like his lungs have all at once been halved, taking in shallow and rapid breaths. He flings his arms out in an over-the-top gesticulation. "Okay, I meant it. You happy? I meant it. Everything got a little out of hand so, yeah, okay." His face contorts a bit and he looks away from them, but he doesn't cry; his eyes don't even get glassy. He's somewhere past sadness, somewhere closer to resignation. It's hard to tell what it is, exactly, that he's willing to accept. "Sometimes I want to. Fine. Sometimes it really--it gets-- You wouldn't get it. I can figure this all out by myself, okay? _I_ know what's going on. I know what I can handle, I'm not a little kid or something." He runs a hand across the top of his right thigh, absently. He's thinking hard and fast, eyebrows furrowed, strained at a task that's usually effortless. "So would you just…"

They wait for him by the door.

His fingers roll against his inseam, imagining the whitening scars. He'd cut too low that first time, too far over, funnily scared that he'd hit his crotch and have to explain it. Maybe not scared, exactly. The next few cuts had been hesitant, but they'd bled readily for being so small, and he'd known that just a little bit deeper and longer would do it, so he'd breathed deep and relaxed. He'd thought it was a good thing no one was going to be home; how could people do this with others in the house? His hand had gathered a cold sweat, so he'd wiped it on his shirt. He hadn't yet pushed the blade back down, but he'd gripped the handle and his hand was steady and calm as it hadn't been before. He'd blinked slowly and it made sense in an absolute way, the way it seemed to half of the time, contrasted to the half of the time it was, he supposed, not nonsensical but maybe-probably a bit of an exaggeration.

That was, with what seemed a surprising amount of coincidence, when Reese and Dewey had come home.

He'd cursed himself for losing track of time. How had he? He never lost track of time.

He'd thought to himself he would have done it if his brothers hadn't come in just then. If they'd run late, he definitely would have.

He'd thought it vaguely, then, a thought he hadn't really even had to think. A fact he'd already known.

He knows it now.

With a slight breath, he finishes weakly:

"..get Mom and Dad."

* * *

**Notes: **I couldn't really make the end come out the way I wanted. If it doesn't make sense: it's based heavily on the idea that most suicidal individuals want to be stopped subconsciously (or even consciously), offering themselves ultimatums, and will nonetheless commit suicide if they aren't. That could be said of the entire story, though, so.

On a slight anatomical note, Malcolm's going after his femoral artery. It's a bleeder.

And I'm done torturing Malcolm now.

Even though I think it's the more appropriate placement in this case, I hate notes at the end of a story, so if people actually got what I was trying to get across, tell me so I can delete them.


	3. Drabble

**Notes: **An actual, legitimate, 100-word drabble. Conversation between Malcolm and Reese, fitting into the continuity of the last story because I'm writing more on the topic. Dialogue-only because I love dialogue-only fics. Hopefully there's some emotion in there, anyway. I think I might fit this dialogue into the extended fic, if I ever finish it, because I kinda like this. :) (Poxmaker's right about the end being confusing. I added a word in hopes that'll clear it up, but if it doesn't I'll explain it.)

* * *

**Drabble**

"I wouldn't be psyched if you were dead."

"That's nice."

"I mean, I said I wanted you to drop dead a lot."

"That's not why I did it."

"Yeah, I didn't think it was…. But I didn't mean it, anyway."

"I never thought you did. So."

"Yeah, so."

"If I do, _did_, you wouldn't've blamed yourself or anything, though, right?"

"Dunno. Doesn't matter, though, since you _won't_, didn't."

"Yeah. Right, sorry."

"...You don't want to now, d'you?"

"No."

"Seriously."

"No. It's okay, sometimes. But--"

"But?"

"Nothing."

"No. _But?"_

"That just kind of makes it worse when it's not okay again."


	4. Deleted

**Notes: **Short, deleted scene from 'Borne of Habit', which means it's connected to the last two chapters of this story, too. Not really edited, as it was in a rough draft of the second chapter, so it's a bit clunky in the end. It's also OOC, but I think it has potential so I'm posting it anyway.

I know it gets boring when every chapter's the same, so I'm not continuing in this vein for this fic series anymore. I promise this is the last suicide-related one. I think I'm going to focus on Dewey or Francis next; I've neglected them. It'll probably be humor, too, as I like writing that a little bit more than angst.

* * *

Dewey, lying in bed behind his brother, listens to Malcolm in silence until he can sync up their breathing.

They lay in the silence, inhaling, exhaling together.

He asks the back of Malcolm's head suddenly, disrupting both their rhythms:

"What do you think happens when you die?"

Malcolm pauses. While he wavers between unhopeful and hopeful agnosticism, he doesn't know where Dewey stands on the matter. "What do _you_ think?"

"I think you get to do whatever you want. Unless you're really bad. Then you have to fight the lizard men for eternity."

"So you believe in Heaven," Malcolm says, because he doesn't know where else to go with that.

"No." a beat. "What do you think?"

"Nothing happens."

"It's just over?"

"That's what I think."

"…That's sad."

Malcolm, feeling protective of his own ideology, snaps, "Well, who knows. No one's dead. I'll take everything I ever said back if I have to fight an army of lizard men."

"If nothing happens," Dewey says, ignoring him.

They both hold their breath.

Dewey rushes, "How come we weren't enough?"

"What?" Malcolm asks, feeling dizzy. "Dewey, don't be like that."

"I mean, I know we aren't great, but we're better than _nothing_."

"I know." A weird breath that stutters around his throat. "You guys are fantastic."

It's wholly sincere, but there's something about the words that makes Dewey think he misstepped without knowing where.

He plays back the words as he would music, looking for the undertones; the emotions; the implications. He places it. Separation. Detatchment. An outsider looking in."You are, too," he assures awkwardly.

Malcolm doesn't answer.


End file.
